


We Can Only Move Forward

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur’s searched nearly the entire battlefield before he finds Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Only Move Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Written for latenightcuppa as a donation with help_haiti and originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/47606.html). (18 January 2010)

Arthur’s searched nearly the entire battlefield before he finds Merlin, and he’s so exhausted he nearly walks right by. Merlin’s lying half under a Mercian more than twice Arthur’s size, and he’s is coated in the thick dark mud churned up by the feet and swords of hundreds of men. He’s pale and still, and Arthur can’t tell if he’s breathing. It’s almost like the scene in Arthur’s mind he’s been trying to ignore all day – all week, in fact, from the moment Merlin had made it clear he’d follow Arthur anywhere, even into battle – and for a frozen, horrible second, Arthur can’t think anything except _no_.

He drops to his knees, heedless that it will probably take days to clean the mud from his greaves, and pushes the Mercian’s body away with a grunt of effort before pulling Merlin toward him and cradling his head in his lap. Merlin’s skin is clammy and cold but he’s breathing, he’s alive, and Arthur feels an iron band unclamp from around his heart. He runs a quick, expert eye over Merlin’s body, and sucks in a breath when he notices the wound on Merlin’s thigh, still bleeding sluggishly.

“Arthur?”

Arthur takes a moment to look down at Merlin, who’s opened his eyes and is focusing a little blearily on Arthur’s face. “Idiot,” Arthur informs him, pulling off his surcoat and tearing it into long strips. “You’re supposed to stop swords with your shield, not your _leg_.”

“Don’t have a shield,” Merlin says a little muzzily, closing his eyes, and Arthur shakes him.

“You can’t go to sleep, Merlin,” he orders. The band is tightening in his chest again. “Stay with me.”

“’M always with you,” Merlin tells him, opening his eyes again and smiling faintly up at Arthur as Arthur sets to work binding his thigh. He frowns and reaches up to touch Arthur’s shoulder, where his own bandages are still fresh. “You’re hurt.”

“Not badly,” Arthur says, which is not quite a lie. He’s had worse injuries, and even though the pain roars hot and sick from the wound out through the rest of his body, protesting the angle of his arm as he bandages Merlin’s leg, he ignores it. He’s no invalid. He can still do this, still care for those under his protection, for Merlin.

“You should rest,” Merlin protests. 

“I am resting,” replies Arthur, moving his hand back up to smooth Merlin’s hair away from his face. The bandage is crude, but it should keep Merlin from bleeding out before Arthur can get him to Gaius. “I’m practically sitting down and everything.”

“You are not—” Merlin begins, and then stops, frowning. “You’re in the mud,” he says, and Arthur nearly shrugs before remembering how terrible an idea that would be. “Arthur,” Merlin says plaintively. “It’s going to take me _forever_ to clean all the grit from your armour now.”

Arthur blinks, surprised out of his focus, and it hits him: the battle is over. Camelot has won, and Bayard won’t be pressing at this border again for a long time, but more than that the fighting is finished and Merlin is _alive_. Merlin _will_ be around to clean his armour and complain about it tomorrow, and the next day, and for days, years after that. The thought makes him grin, almost giddy in the absence of the worry that’s been sitting heavy in his gut since Bayard first sent soldiers over the border.

“You’re laughing,” Merlin grumbles. “You’re insufferable, did you know that? You probably sat in the mud on purpose.”

Arthur bends down, ignoring the painful pull at his shoulder, and kisses Merlin thoroughly until Merlin is breathless, with just the slightest flush colouring his cheeks. 

“Yes,” Arthur tells him gravely, although the effect is ruined by the smile still tugging the corners of his mouth so far up his cheeks are beginning to ache. “Completely on purpose.”


End file.
